She left the stage the way great performers do: without fanfare, yet with a timing that feels almost scripted. At 93, after nearly seven decades of work, she slipped away in London, her sons nearby, her most famous creation glowing on the television. Dementia had slowly drawn a curtain over her mind, but it never managed to touch her humour, or harden her heart.

To her family, she was a “darling mother,” not a monument, and that’s the truth that lingers when the laughter fades. She was still chuckling at Fawlty Towers the day before she died, still sharing space with the character that made her unforgettable. British comedy will echo with her sharpest lines for generations, but her deepest legacy lives in the gentleness behind the steel, and in the unflinching grace of her final bow.